With the Rising and Setting of Anar
by childofchild
Summary: finished! Frodo was orphaned at a young age. It is common knowledge that his parents drowned in the Brandywine. But common knowledge to whom? The Shire-folk? *sniff* Indeed.
1. Part One

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

A/N:  This is the tale of what became of Frodo's parents.  I hope _you _will forgive me the mistake of changing Frodo's age when his parents die.  I did not catch the specific age until I was well into this fic and once caught I could not keep, for I would have had to do some _major _rewriting.  Forgive me this if you will.  Also, this story is not meant to be broken up into chapters but is going to be as such for the length and I understand the issue concerning attention spans.  I'll break it up, serve it to you in bight-size pieces. 

Being the First Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

            Frodo sat upon an old barrel.  The wood was warped from constant exposure to the salt air--the hobbit was sure to sit particularly still.  Yet he didn't mind, for the barrel was tall and the view beautiful.  He could see for miles in every and all directions--as far as his sapphire eyes would allow (which was quite far, for hobbits have particularly sharp sight).  The sea was as smooth as anything, reflecting the setting sun's rays in a sheen of gold that hurt the eyes if looked at straight on.  The sky held naught in its blue depths but gulls and their insistent chatter.  Frodo swung his legs, tapping his feet rhythmically against the side of the barrel as he let his mind soar with the birds.  He watched them for a while, fascinated by the way the wind held them in the air, letting them ride on its currents just as easily as he road on the Elvish ship.

            But soon his mind wandered and he found himself thinking of things that had happened not too long ago.  If one had been watching, they would of noted the drastic change in his face.  Frodo had never been especially good at hiding his emotions, especially when he thought none were watching, and any and all could see the shadowed darkness that descended upon his almost childlike features.  His thoughts, one could almost guess, were walking along a dark path that eventually led to a most hated and feared mountain.  A mountain that had held much significance to the one who sat upon the old barrel, which rested comfortably on an elegant Elvish ship.

            In the still air, a throat was noisily cleared.

            Frodo glanced up, his face flushing almost instantly, as though he feared he had been caught doing something wrong.  "G-gandalf," Frodo gasped breathlessly.

            The old wizard was looking at the hobbit closely and Frodo--unnerved by the intense scrutiny of the wizard--looked away.  He watched as the sun began its descent past the horizon.  

            "A beautiful day," he whispered, not untruthfully.

            Gandalf looked out upon the water and the setting sun, and nodded his head.  "Quite beautiful.  I don't believe I have ever seen one so spectacular."

            "No," Frodo agreed, his face slowly returning to its normal shade as it became evident that Gandalf was not there to reprimand his thoughts.  "It's as if everything becomes more beautiful the closer . . . the farther we go."  His voice was tinged with regret and the wizard frowned.

            "Yes," Gandalf said slowly, "It is most beautiful there . . . most beautiful," and Frodo could not be certain but it seemed there was a longing in the wizard's voice.

            For many moments the two sat in silence.  Slowly--when no conversation resumed--Frodo's sapphire eyes once again glazed over, and Gandalf knew that the small hobbit walked the shadowed paths of a horror-filled past.  Evil was never far from Frodo's thoughts.

            Gandalf shifted and his white robes rustled softly.  "What do you remember of your parents, Frodo?" he asked suddenly and quite unexpectedly.

            Frodo glanced up sharply and looked over at the wizard with hard, suspicious eyes.  It was a rare person indeed who questioned his heritage, for all knew of that fateful night so long ago.  He was an orphan; that was enough for most.  Yet Gandalf's eyes swept the ocean's horizon (as if he sought something beyond its limits) and seemed hardly interested in the question he had just asked--less even in the answer the hobbit would give him.

            Frodo's muscles relaxed as he realized the wizard had meant no harm by his question.  He looked down at his hands and his eyes lost their focus as fog from distance memory assailed his mind.  "I--I remember," he began haltingly, as if it had been along time since he had let this memory float to the surface.  Gandalf looked sideways at Frodo but the hobbit didn't even notice--so enwrapped was he in the shadows of his childhood.  He frowned, "They were crying . . . A gentlehobbit and lady.  The lady . . . her hair . . . it was light, so very light . . . Almost like the sun.  She was crying . . . sobbing . . . Her eyes--they were in the shadows . . . I cannot remember . . . But the gentlehobbit.  His eyes I remember, for he was close.  They were dark . . .almost brown, yet somehow darker.  There was warmth there, though, and it made me feel safe.  But they were crying," his eyes cleared of the fog and he looked up to see Gandalf studying him carefully.  "They were _crying, Gandalf.  I didn't understand . . . I--I was too young.  But it was as if they knew . . . as if they knew something was going to happen . . ."  He paused, searched the wizard's face.  But then his eyes fell.  "But that's impossible."  _

            He closed his eyes and sighed.  "Ol' Saradoc--Merry's father--told me later what happened."

            "What did he tell you?" Gandalf asked gently when the hobbit did not continue.

            Frodo blinked, for his eyes were misting over.  _What is wrong with you? he demanded of himself angrily.  __You were five--not but a wee tot--there had been no emotional attachment . . .  Frodo stood suddenly and hugged himself.  "He told me my parents had drowned."_

            Frodo turned and slowly approached the ship's railing.  "Their boat was found--overturned in the Branywine."  His eyes fell upon the smooth, glittering sea.

            Again silence flooded the deck.

            "Frodo," Gandalf said at length and the hobbit glanced up.  With the help of his staff, the wizard joined the small hobbit at the rail.  "Let me tell you something . . . ."

*~*~*~*~*~*


	2. Part Two

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

A/N:  Thank you for the wonderful reviews.  I enjoy your input.  Please don't hesitate to criticize.  This chapter is for my first three reviewers:  Tathar, Allly, and El.  Thanks for your time and I am glad that you are enjoying this tale that Gandalf never before saw fit to tell.

            Being the Second Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

It had been twenty-two years since Gandalf the Grey had traveled into the Shire by way of the East Road.  It was the dawning of a bright September morning in the year 2973 of the Third Age that the wizard crossed through the Hedge and made his way to Brandy Hall.  His gray robes and silver scarf hung limp in the already stifling heat and his tall pointed hat lay low over his face to shadow his piercing eyes from the climbing sun.  His walk was interrupted by an occasional limp--whether from age or a long-forgotten wound, it is not known--and his long silver beard _swished softly with each step._

            He climbed a rising hill, following a well-used dirt path, until he reached its top and was able to look down upon a great expanse of green turf.  The path he had walked upon disappeared beneath his feet, flowing naturally into soft grass until it ran the length of the hill and stopped at a cluster of smials, which Gandalf knew as Brandy Hall.  

            With a sigh, the wizard seated himself on an ancient stone, for his feet were weary from the long journey and they relished the thought of rest.  Gandalf sat for many moments, without a thought or noise to disturb the harmonious scene before him.

            Then laughter--like that of silver bells--rang out, and Gandalf tilted his head to better hear the sweet music . . . .

            Drogo Baggins caught the sweet laughter of his wife and a warmth enveloped his entire being.  He couldn't help but let his boyish features crease into a fond smile.   Again, the laughter came to his hobbit ears and his pace quickened as he suddenly realized where she must be.

            He rounded a corner of Brandy Hall and the Brandywine came into full view.  Down by its golden shores he spotted that of which he sought . . . .

            Primula stood knee deep in the cool water of the Brandywine--her skirts tucked up around her legs--and she held a wee hobbit child in her arms.  The toddler could of been no more than five--already walking, indeed even running, and quite fond of speaking unintelligible words, though he still enjoyed emitting gurgles and laughter.  Primula--her honey-colored hair glinting in the rising sun--balanced the small child on her hip, while struggling to stay upright as the cool water rushed past her legs.  

            The child clapped.  "Mine!  Mine!"

            "Yes, Frodo," Primula said with a fond smile.  She made her way to a shallow spot with little rocks.  "Here you are," she said happily, bending over and slowly setting him down, though still keeping a firm, yet, gentle grip upon his wiggling body.  Frodo kicked excitedly at the water as she lowered him, and laughed when the water rushed past his middle and up toward his bare chest.  Primula smiled and bounced him up and down, laughed out loud when his small arms flailed in uncontrollable excitement.

            "You like that?" she laughed happily.

            "Primula!"

            The hobbit-woman jerked in startlement and looked up at the sudden cry of shock.  Her surprise vanished, however, and she smiled at who it was, for such reactions were common from her sister.

            "Primmy, what do you think you're doing?" Asphodel demanded.

            "Why, teaching Frodo to swim, of course," she smiled down at her son but Frodo had ceased his splashing--always subdued into shyness when others came around.  Primula frowned slightly at this and lifted him from the water.

            "Teaching him to swim?" Asphodel asked in disbelief.  "Primmy, you can't be serious."

            Primula looked over at her sister.  "Of course I'm serious.  Just because you chose to keep Milo away from the water doesn't mean I will do the same with Frodo." Her gaze fell past Asphodel and a smile spread along her features.  "Besides," she turned back to her sister, "Drogo quite agrees."

            Asphodel's features hardened, but her mouth shut with a snap.

            "Aye, love!" Drogo called, passing Asphodel with a smile the sun could envy.  "Good day, sister-of-mine," he said warmly, "How fare you on this beautiful day?"  But his eyes had already turned to his wife and Asphodel's grumbles were lost on Drogo.  He ran down to the water and splashed heedlessly in, Primula laughing as water sprayed over her in glittering droplets.

            "Da!  Fishy, fishy!" Frodo clapped and held out his hands to catch the falling water.

            Drogo laughed--a deep throaty laugh--and kissed his son on the brow, the child's wet curls now falling into his large blue eyes.  "A fish, am I?  Aye, then you must be the worm," he reached for Frodo and Primula handed the grasping tot over.  "The sweet little worm that shall satisfy my hungry appetite!" and he buried his face in the child's chest, growling playfully.  Frodo squealed in laughter, threw his arms about his father's head and tried imitating the older Baggins by sucking on his father's forehead.

            "Mine, mine!" he giggled, his playfulness coming freely once again, for his thoughts had been pulled from the glowering Asphodel.

            Primula laughed pleasantly and Drogo looked up, a large grin on his features.  She bent over to kiss him lightly on the lips but he grabbed her and brought her close.

            Upon the bank, Asphodel threw up her hands in exasperation and stalked back up to Brandy Hall.

            Drogo helped Primula from the Brandywine, while Frodo clung to his back.  As his wife stepped from the water he felt a gentle touch upon the top of his head and then heard an over exaggerated smacking sound.  Primula looked over at Frodo then giggled as Drogo again felt and then heard a similar touch and noise.  "Frodo?" Drogo looked curiously at Primula but she had a hand over her mouth in a way to still the laughter.  "What are you doing?"

            Again the touch and again the smacking.

            "Kisses!" was Frodo's reply and Drogo laughed.  He brought his hands over his head and grabbed and pulled the child up and over his back.  Frodo shrieked and then laughed as Drogo tickled his son.  Primula watched this display fondly but started as a bell rang out from the large home up ahead.  Drogo ceased his tickling and glanced up.

            "Eat!" Frodo cried happily and struggled in Drogo's grasp.  The hobbit set the child down and watched as the toddler raced for the doors of Brandy Hall.

            Beside Drogo, Primula shook her head.  "He _is your son, my love."_

            Drogo smiled proudly, "Aye, that he is."

            "And he shall have your girth one of these days," she smiled, for her statement was laughable in its own way.  Drogo was quite slim for one of his race.

            Drogo laughed, "Yet hopefully your looks," and he kissed her.

            "He certainly has his mother's eyes," came an assured voice behind the two.  Both started and whirled.

            Behind them stood an old man, stooped and gray, a staff in one hand.  It took a moment for Drogo to collect himself, for it was rare indeed for men to be found in the Shire.

            "G-good day, sir," Drogo stammered.  

            "Perhaps not so good," the man murmured but neither hobbit heard him.

            Drogo peered hard at the old man, suddenly realizing he had seen this human before.  Memories from growing up in Hobbiton slowly came back to him.  

            "Gandalf, is it?" he asked uncertainly.

            "So you remember me," the man seemed pleased.  "That is well, for I remember you, Drogo son of Fosco."  A sudden twinkle came to the old wizard's eye and Drogo blushed.  Gandalf looked over at Primula.  "But I am afraid I am unfamiliar with your wife."

            "Oh, forgive me!" Drogo said, still a bit flustered from the sudden meeting.  "My manners are horrible today."  
            Gandalf waved it aside, "Not at all."

            "Primmy, you remember tales of Gandalf the Grey?  I told you about him, did I not?"

            Recognition dawned in her blue eyes, "Ah, yes," she dipped her head respectfully.  "I've heard quite a lot about you, Master Gandalf.  My name is Primula, daughter of Gorbadoc, Master of Brandy Hall."

            "A pleasure, Lady," the wizard dipped his hatted head.

            There was a moment of awkward silence as Gandalf unabashedly studied the two.

            "Forgive my rudeness, Master Gandalf--"

            Gandalf waved a hand.  "Formalities can be such a tasteless and tiresome burden."

            "Gandalf then," Drogo nodded.  He was quite a moment, as though he had lost his courage, but then, "Is there someone you seek?  Perhaps I may know him and could--" Drogo was interrupted by a chuckle and he looked curiously at the robed man.

            "Yes," Gandalf nodded, "Indeed you do."

            "Yes?" Drogo seemed pleased at the prospect of helping the wizard.  "Who?"

            "You."

            Drogo was somewhat bewildered.  "Me?"

            "You and your wife," he nodded.  His tone was suddenly grave and the two hobbits looked at each other uncertainly.  "Immediately, if it is possible."

            "Immediately?" Primula frowned.  "The Elevenses' bell rang just moments before you arrived.  Surely we can wait until we've eaten.  Frodo has--"

            "One of your sisters will no doubt care for the child."  Primula nodded reluctantly.  "It is a most urgent matter."

            Drogo nodded, "Very well."

            Gandalf swept an arm past Brandy Hall, "Let us take a walk then."


	3. Part Three

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

            Being the Third Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

The three walked on a wide path running parallel to the Brandywine.  Drogo and Primula held hands while Gandalf held his staff, and they made their way slowly along the smooth dirt road.  Gandalf said nothing for a time; he seemed to be thinking on matters Drogo didn't want to get involved with, but feared he had little choice.

            At length, Gandalf spoke:

            "Do you remember the commotion over Bilbo's disappearance not so long ago?"

            "Oh, aye," Drogo nodded, for how could he not.  He had just had his Coming of Age when Bilbo had suddenly come back from his adventures in the Outside.  He remembered the spectacle at Bilbo's and the furious Sackville-Baggins getting 'cheated'--and not for the last time--out of their precious Bag End.  Though he had been Primula's friend for many years before, it had been around this time that he officially began to court her.

            Primula nodded.  "We even heard of Bilbo's fame way over here in Buckland."

            The wizard nodded.  "Do you recall what he did when he was away?" he asked.

            Drogo shrugged.  "There were so many rumors intermingled with truth that by the time I heard the tale I am certain I couldn't tell you."

            Gandalf nodded in understanding.  "There wasn't any _one thing Bilbo did, for he did many a heroic thing on that journey.  But what is beginning to concern me is one seemingly harmless thing."_

            "What's that?" Drogo asked curiously.

            Gandalf was silent and Drogo was uncertain whether the wizard planned on continuing or leaving both he and his wife in suspense for the rest of their days.  It must have been something truly dreadful, whatever his Cousin Bilbo did, for Gandalf to get worried over it, for very rare is the case when wizards ever get concerned. 

            "Did he ever mention a ring to you, Drogo?" Gandalf asked finally, but so long did this question take that the hobbit was unsure whether it had anything to do with his earlier statement.

            "A ring?  No, I am afraid not.  Anyway, Bilbo and I were never all that close, he being so 'Tookish' and all, and as my mother forbade such.  But even now, as we talk now and again, he's never mentioned a ring to me."  Drogo shook his head.  "I have never heard about any ring, not in any of the tales about him."

            "I suppose that is good news then," Gandalf said.

            "What does a ring have to do with us, Master Gandalf," Primula asked curiously, wondering if Drogo was comprehending the wizard any better than her, though she doubted it.

            "Quite a lot, my Lady," he murmured almost to himself, "Quite a lot."

            "Forgive me, Gandalf," Drogo said finally, "but I am afraid I do not--"

            Gandalf held up a hand and the hobbit immediately ceased.  "On his journey, Bilbo came across a ring.  It was quite a simple bauble, pretty in its own little way, and useful when one wished to escape from a particularly nasty circumstance.  It gave its bearer the power to vanish."

            "Vanish?" Primula was intrigued, for magic had always interested her and, indeed, this ring sounded magical.

            "Yes, vanish," the wizard nodded.  "Whenever Bilbo slipped it on, he had the uncanny ability to disappear from sight.  Useful, indeed, when Orcs and such were about," he mused.  "Bilbo never found any particular reason for mentioning his discovery to the rest of us--the Company and I.  That in itself was not altogether special but the little fellow actually went to great lengths to hide it from us."

            "Odd," Drogo frowned.

            "Indeed," Gandalf agreed.  "Bilbo was never the secretive type and with his sudden passion to keep the Ring hidden, naturally my curiosity flared--and with good reason.  I soon got the truth from him--and the whole tale behind it.  For the moment, the story is irrelevant and I shan't take either your time nor mine in its telling.  But in its revelations I soon became suspicious!" his face twisted so fiercely that Drogo started in surprise and he felt Primmy's grip tighten.  He squeezed her hand in reassurance.

            "Eventually, I left Bilbo," the wizard continued, "for I had no proof behind my suspicions, and from the Shire I went.  For a time I studied things--things that many would not comprehend nor see the significance within--and after a time I once again returned.  I brought Balin this time, though I never shared my suspicions with either him or Bilbo.  And the three of us had many a talk late at night by the warm fire of Bilbo's hearth.  Stories of past adventure, and the like."  He paused for a moment, frowning.  "But something was different.  Our faithful little hobbit had changed--or not changed at all as the case seemed to be."

            Drogo was about to tell the wizard that he did not understand, until it dawned on him that perhaps he wasn't suppose to.  He waited for Gandalf to continue.

            "It was about that time that my beliefs became, for the most part, confirmed.  There were still doubts to be sure, but not enough for me to procrastinate any longer."  

            The three walked in silence for a while--each having their own thoughts preoccupied.  At length Drogo spoke:

            "I am afraid I do not understand what this has to do with either my wife or I."

            Gandalf stopped and looked down at Drogo, a great sadness hidden in his old weatherworn features.  "What would you say, Drogo," Gandalf began slowly--quite deliberately, "if I were to tell you that the fate of Middle-earth rests solely in your hands?"

            Drogo looked up at the wizard with confusion in his eyes, but, nevertheless, he answered Gandalf.  "I would say that you have chosen the wrong hobbit, Gandalf--indeed, the wrong race.  Surely if such great a matter should fall to anyone it would be you.  Or an Elf at the very least," he added as an afterthought.

            Gandalf laughed, "If that were true--that _I might be the one to appoint the soul who must direct Middle-earth's fate! Nay," he smiled fondly at the hobbit, "Nay, not I, Drogo my lad.  Not I.  But if it was, then perhaps I should choose a hobbit regardless."  Gandalf was thoughtful.  "Indeed, you small folk can be stouter than the tallest of Men!"  He shook his head.  "No," the wizard suddenly looked grave.  He peered down at the hobbit. "You, Drogo, none other.  You and your wife."  _

            Slowly, Drogo's dark eyes widened, "I am beginning to think you speak seriously."

            "Are you?" the wizard tone was suddenly hard, "Good.  Perhaps now we can go somewhere with this."  Gandalf ceased walking and stared down at the two hobbits, their fingers still entwined.  "I have never spoken so truly, Drogo, and I have never required such a straight and honest answer.  Darkness is rising, I can feel it in my old bones, and it is terrible.  Worse than anything any of your kind, gentle people have ever known.  By chance, a great artifact has fallen into the hands of the most unlikely character, but one--I fear--who cannot for long bear the Burden.  He is already getting old and evil has not yet shown itself--it may not for many years!"

            "What are you saying, Master?" Primula asked in alarm.  "Hobbit's have no concern with the Outside.  We are a peaceful folk."

            Gandalf looked down at her mournfully.  "And none know that more than I," he spoke softly.  He shook his head and turned from the two.  His eyes fell upon the golden waters of the Baranduin, following its lazy current far off into the distance.  His shoulders stooped from some unseen burden that, as the time drew nigh, he seemed reluctant to voice.  His face was haggard and drawn--indeed, he looked his age.  He swiped a gnarled hand across tired eyes and sighed in a deep and gusty breath.

            Drogo watched the wizard with some apprehension, for the Gandalf of his youth had never seemed so tired--so _old.  Slowly, tentatively, the hobbit took a few uncertain steps forward._

            "Gandalf," he spoke no louder than the whisper of the wind, and his voice was just as gentle.  "Gandalf, please, I do not understand."

            "Nor I," Primula whispered, her sapphire eyes watching the wizard in something akin to fear.

            Gandalf's gray robes rustled softly as he turned to regard the two behind him.  They seemed so very small in the morning sun; so small and insignificant.  And yet, they were everything but insignificant.  If Gandalf's fears held even the tiniest ounce of truth, then the two would have a horrible part to play in their world's fate, even if it was not a large one.

            "Come," the wizard spoke hoarsely.  He waved them down to the banks of the river and the hobbits followed without a word.  "Sit," he commanded and the hobbits sat, though he himself chose to stand.

            He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and his words flowed forth:

            "This was never what I wanted, but war and its consequences are rarely something one wishes for.

            "Balin and I eventually left Bilbo by his comfortable fire at Bag End and though Balin returned to his own home, I remained in the Shire for a year or so afterwards.  I searched every hobbit hole, every Inn; I talked with every gentlehobbit and lady I came across, inquiring details of one very old, very adventurous hobbit I was particularly fond of."

            "Bilbo," Drogo said quietly.

            Gandalf nodded.  "Yes.  Bilbo.  You remember the Ring I mentioned?  Well, here is the key to the upcoming Darkness and the destruction of our world."

            Primula gasped but said naught.

            Gandalf continued, "Yet, I knew Bilbo would never rid himself of the silly trinket nor give it freely away.  And yet he must! for when the time comes the dear soul shall be too old and the burden too heavy, the shadows perhaps too close.  Another must take it in his stead but that someone must be a fellow Bilbo could trust.  He must _freely hand over the Ring.  Otherwise it should destroy him!"_

            "A ring?" Drogo asked, horrified.

            "An evil ring," Gandalf said.  "A ring that must _never reach the finger of an evil creature that dwells in the South and East."_

            Drogo shivered.  There was only one evil there, though it had remained dormant for thousands of years.

            "What is there in the Shire, Master Gandalf?" Primula asked weakly.  "Surely nothing."

            "I am afraid you are wrong, my dear," Gandalf said gravely.  "I found what I sought only five years ago, when word reached me that a young child was born in the Shire."  He looked at Drogo and Primula.  "The child was a Baggins."

            The look on Primula's smooth, round face was enough to break the old wizard's heart.  Her sapphire eyes held more pain than ever Gandalf had seen on any a living creature.  He knew she understood.  Knew that, even though naught had been explained, Primula understood the old man's meaning--his thoughts, his intents.  But she was too overcome, and did not have the strength to say or do anything.

            Drogo shook his head of curls.  "I still don't understand.  A child was born in the Shire--five years ago?  What does this child have to do with anything."  His eyes narrowed.  "And what does it matter that this infant is a Baggins?  There are many Bagginses; they are a great name."

            Gandalf's features hardened.  "Think, Drogo, think!" the wizard snapped.  _This is hard enough on me; must I hit the hobbit over the head so that he will understand?  The words that followed were no louder than a hiss.  "Your child is the One.  He must bear the Ring, Drogo.   Frodo is the Ring-bearer."_

* * * * *

That night, Gandalf the Grey once again walked upon the well-trodden path of the East Road.  His direction was the same, for he traveled west into the very heart of the Shire.  

            His mind was a turmoil, full of doubts and apprehensions.  In his heart, he knew what it must come to.  He had known for the last five years and Eru knew how he had fought with it.  He had stayed up nights, wanting nothing more than some other solution.  There _had to be another way!  A less painful way.  But there wasn't.  _

            In the end, Gandalf knew--as he had known from the start--that little Frodo was the only savior Middle-earth would ever receive.  At one time it might have been Bilbo, but the hobbit was getting old and evil had not yet shown its ugly face.  The Ring would not release its victim until it so chose, and that could only be if Bilbo's will was strong and he passed it off of his own free will.  It would have to be someone the old hobbit trusted and there were few individuals of that sort.  Many hobbits found Bilbo odd and queer and in turn the old adventurer was loath to make friends with people with such speculations.  Gandalf knew he alone was close to Bilbo but he would _not take the Ring.  To even consider the notion was dangerous beyond belief.  The __Ring was dangerous beyond belief._

            Yet, if there were none the old hobbit trusted, then Gandalf would just have to find someone he _could trust.  And so he took up the search.  _

            The old wizard traveled from the East Farthings to the West Farthings and then on to the South Farthings and eventually even to the North.  His search was in vain, however, as most who had heard of Bilbo were distrustful of his 'adventurous ways' and others Gandalf would not have trusted the safety of a rock in their care.  No, none were right.  None were closely related to Bilbo, and none were young enough.

            That is, until Frodo was born.  The child was as near as anything Gandalf could of hoped for.  Bilbo was even now fond of the little tot, having visited Drogo and Primula about a year or so ago.  He had enjoyed himself immensely.  Gandalf had heard as much from a friend of his who kept an eye out for the peaceful Shire when the wizard could not.

            "The babe is clear-eyed and immensely smart for one of his years," Aragorn had told the wizard.  "I deem he is the one, Gandalf.  None is more suited."

            "Perhaps," he had mused at the time, but he was certain Aragorn told the truth of it.

            Gandalf had spoken to the child's parents.  He had said little, though, and would need to make clearer the matter on his return.  _A month should suffice, he deemed.  In the meantime, he had much to discuss with a very old friend._

*~*~*~*~*~*


	4. Part Four

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

A/N:  I am glad there are those of you out there who enjoy this.  I did spend quite a bit of time on this tale and I really appreciate your comments, ect.  Thank you for the time.  

Abigail da Jedi:  'Anor' is another name for Minas Anor, 'Tower of the Sun', later named Minas Tirith.  'Anar' is the Quenya name of the Sun.  Why one is spelt 'Anor' and the other 'Anar' I know not, save perhaps the terms merely coincide with their meaning as can oftentimes happen in different tongues.  I merely chose the 'Anar' because it specifically was the name for the Sun.

Blue Jedi Hobbit 009:  Forgive me, Blue Jedi Hobbit, but I am afraid that I did not understand your review for chapter two—'That was um...original...to say the least................................ Okay, I didn't get it.'  Perhaps if you elaborate I could help you 'get it'. 

My sincere appreciation.

            Being the Fourth Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

Frodo looked at the wizard wide-eyed.  "You knew my parents?" he blurted.

            Gandalf smiled and nodded.  "Your father was an ornery lad, if ever I saw one," he smiled fondly.  "I remember . . ." he chuckled.  "It was at one of the Old Took's birthday parties--128th if I remember correctly--and your father and several of his truant friends got a hold of my dear Gerontius' birthday cake.  He was just a lad, then, no where near his _tweens, and the whole county was in an uproar when they discovered their over-bloated, and might I add, well satisfied hobbit-children sprawled in the grass sleeping the afternoon away."  Gandalf smiled at the memory.  "Geron hadn't laughed so hard in all the years I had known him.  I think that that was one of the best birthdays he ever had."_

            "He sounds like Pippin," Frodo commented, with a delighted chuckle.

            Gandalf blinked and looked down at the hobbit, startled at this obvious statement that he himself had never realized.  "Indeed."  Pippin was a lot like Drogo had been when he was younger.  "Perhaps that is why I have never laid that foolish Took flat."

            The hobbit's eyes widened at this blunt statement then, catching the twinkle in the old man's eye, Frodo couldn't help but laugh.

            "I was very fond of your father," Gandalf admitted, once their laughter had been blown away by the salty wind.  Several moments fled before Frodo said aught.  When he did, his voice was thick with longing.

            "I should have liked to have known him."  He stared off into the distance, and then glanced up a moment later as he felt the wizard's gaze upon him.  

            "Why didn't you tell me about them before?" he wondered, almost accusingly.  Gandalf did not begrudge the hobbit his anger, only nodded in understanding.  "At least I might have heard about their deaths from you, Gandalf.  Not from someone I hardly knew."  There was a note of resentment in his voice.

            Gandalf allowed the hobbit a patient smile, soft and comforting.  "Ah, Frodo my lad, don't you see?"  The hobbit frowned at the look the wizard bestowed upon him.  Gandalf chuckled at Frodo's confused expression.  "No, I see that you do not.  Listen to me, my boy, and I shall continue my tale . . . ."

*~*~*~*~*~*

            Gandalf looked over at the warm glow emitting from the round windows of Bag End.  It had been a long time since he had seen a welcome that seemed so inviting to his very soul.  The thought of what awaited him there warmed his insides and seemed to lighten the invisible load that was dragging him down.  As he walked up the path to a well-rounded, brightly painted green door, there was less of a limp to the old man's walk and more of a bounce. 

            He rapped upon the wood with his staff in sync with the beat of his heart and stood back to graciously await the arrival of his host.  Several moments passed and, when no one answered his call, he repeated this process making certain the _thwacks held a demanding tone to them.  He stood back in satisfaction this time, for he heard the irritated stomp of bare feet and grumblings that could only be owned by one well-loved soul._

            "Doesn't anybody know what time it is these days," somebody growled menacingly on the other side of the green door.  Gandalf heard the click of a lock and watched in bemused silence as the door handle--which, according to hobbit custom, was placed in the center of the door--turned with an irritated rattle of its own.  Slowly, and without any hint of a creak or a squeal, the door swung open upon well-oiled hinges.

            "Well, what is it?  What do you want?" the dark figure demanded irritably.  "I hope you realize you got a poor old hobbit out of his nice warm bed.  Do you have any idea what time it its?  It's five hours 'til dawn and not at all an appropriate time to go a visiting."

            Gandalf smiled broadly at the familiar voice that presented itself and chuckled at the ridiculously defiant and angered figure before him.  Not even four feet tall, Bilbo Baggins stood framed in the very center of his round doorway, hands on his hips, staring out into the blackness of night.  At the wizard's chuckle, the hands hesitantly fell to their sides and the small character peered out into the darkness.

            "Gandalf?" Bilbo asked hesitantly, his voice wavering in a hope he feared would prove false, as it all too often did.

            "And who else would come to your door at such an awful hour?"  He smiled down at his friend.  "Who else but your old friend Gandalf."

            "Gandalf!"  Bilbo launched himself from the warm embrace of Bag End to the warm embrace of Gandalf the Grey.  His small arms hardly reached around the wizard's billowing robes.  "Oh, Gandalf my friend!  I have missed you."

            The wizard kneeled down so that he might see the hobbit clearly.  Though Bilbo's head of curls was disheveled from sleep, his eyes were bright and wide-awake.  The hobbit leaned back so that both could get a good look at the other.  Satisfied with what he saw, Bilbo smiled at his friend.  "It has been too long, Gandalf."

            The wizard nodded.  "Indeed, it has."

            But despite the hobbit's words, Gandalf saw that there was no difference in Bilbo's physical appearance.  It had been many years since he had seen his friend and plenty of time had gone by for Bilbo to have aged.  Gandalf frowned and looked the hobbit up and down.  He hadn't aged, though.  Not at all.

            "Come!  Come, my friend!"  Bilbo pulled away from Gandalf and walked inside Bag End.  "There is much to talk of."

            As the hobbit disappeared within Bag End's bright interior, he never heard the wizard's murmured, "So there is."

            Slowly, Gandalf followed.

            Gandalf sat at a small wooden table in Bilbo's kitchen.  The table was small even to hobbit standards (more of a counter than anything) and Gandalf found his knees nearly up to his chin.  Bilbo had offered the wizard respite in the dining room for that table was much larger, but Gandalf had graciously declined.  He found the kitchen more homely, it being where Bilbo occupied most of his time.   Friends and family were few and he only used the dining room when entertaining.

            Gandalf alternately sipped at a small cup of tea and bit into a sweet red apple.  He munched on the one contently for several moments while Bilbo set out a plate of freshly baked bread and a hunk of cheese.

            "There we are," Bilbo said, seating himself opposite Gandalf.  "Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

            Gandalf had been reluctant to speak of what he knew he must.  For the first week that he stayed at Bilbo's he had procrastinated, finding reasons to wait until tomorrow or the day after.  But time grew short and the old wizard knew the inevitable was drawing nigh.  Last night, he had decided that it was time.

            It was a beautiful morning, the sun streamed in through the round window on the wall to Gandalf's left.  He heard the birds chirping beyond and the distinct sound of snipping.  Hamfast was at work already, he decided.  A perfect day in a perfect place.  Gandalf sighed mournfully.

            "How long has it been since you've visited your cousin, Bilbo?" Gandalf wondered, trying to sound as nonchalant about it as possible.  Bilbo poured him another cup of tea.

            "Which cousin, Gandalf?" the hobbit chuckled.  "I have more than I can count on all my fingers and toes together."

            Gandalf smiled.  "Drogo."

            "Ah, yes."  Bilbo smiled.  "I visited him about a year or so ago.  Did you know that he and his wife have a son now?"

            "I'd heard something of the sort, yes."

            "A delightful little lad.  As shy as a garden snail, he is, but once he warms to you . . ."  Bilbo looked over at Gandalf, wonderment in his eyes.  "He really took a liking to me, Gandalf, and I can't for the life of me figure out why."  He laughed.  "The grouch that I am."

            "Your an easy person to get along with," Gandalf assured him, not untruthfully.

            Bilbo nodded, his eyes a little distant.  "Perhaps."

            Gandalf nibbled on a piece of freshly baked bread, relishing its warmth.  "Delicious," he commented.

            "Hmm," Bilbo glanced up.  "Oh, thank you.  My mother always was an excellent cook.  I learned from the best, you know.  But we were speaking of Drogo.  What about him?"

            Gandalf took a sip of tea, set the cup carefully upon the table, and settled himself as comfortably as could be expected in a chair that was three times too small.  "I want to discuss a matter of great importance with you Bilbo."

            The hobbit nodded.  "Alright, Gandalf, I'm all ears."

            The wizard looked at Bilbo intently for a moment then nodded, satisfied.  "How likely is it that you will marry?"

            Bilbo blinked, startled at the unexpected question, then laughed.  "Oh, Gandalf, the things that interests you.  Marry!  Me?  I'm nearing my eighty-fourth year--what would I need with a woman?  Oh, I suppose it would be nice to have someone about, someone I was fond of and who shared my affections--it can be awful lonely when dusk falls . . ."  Bilbo looked about his hobbit-hole with all its knickknacks and baubles and gave a gusty sigh.  "No, Gandalf, I am too old.  Besides, I think I am content in my waning years."  He took a sip of his tea then placed the china down with a pretty _clink.  "And yet," he said softly, as if something unpleasant nagged at the back of his mind.  "It's sad really . . ."  He trailed off suddenly and Gandalf noted his eyes became distant._

            "What's sad, Bilbo?" the wizard pressed gently.

            The hobbit caught himself, looked over at his patient friend.  He forced a smiled.  "It's nothing."

            "Come, come, my small friend, I see something is troubling you," Gandalf said good-naturedly, leaning back in his small wooden chair.  It groaned in protest.  The wizard glanced at it nervously but, as it didn't seem it would collapse beneath him, his attention once again fell to his companion.  "Surely, we have known one another long enough that you might confide within me."  He looked expectantly at the hobbit.

            Bilbo chuckled hesitantly.  "Yes, I suppose we have.  It's just . . . well, I'm afraid that once I am gone," he looked around his room, "my home and all my beautiful treasures--my scrolls and maps--will be without a master."  He frowned.  "Unless"--he shuddered--"the Sackville-Bagginses get their greedy little fingers on everything."  Bilbo sighed.  "What a loss.  What a terrible, terrible loss."

            Gandalf pulled from the great billows of his gray robes a long wooden and well-carved pipe.  He inspected it critically for a moment and then, putting it in his mouth, dug about in another section of his robes until he produced a small brown pouch which contained a good supply of Old Toby.  Putting some of the highly prized leaf in his wooden pipe, Gandalf mumbled a few words--words that Bilbo couldn't quite catch--and the weed flared to life.

            "Indeed," Gandalf agreed, inhaling deeply.  "A pity."  Large, white smoke rings floated into the air.

            Bilbo nodded sadly.  "But, then, I suppose there is no help for it."

            Gandalf shook his head.  "On the contrary, my friend."  Bilbo looked at him curiously, but--knowing the wizard well enough that he would supply the reasoning shortly after--kept quiet.  "I believe I have suddenly and quite unexpectedly come up with a solution to your misfortune."  The wizard peered through the dancing tendrils of smoke.  Bilbo gave Gandalf a bemused smiled, not surprised at the wizard's sudden claim.  He had known Gandalf for nearly thirty-two years--little surprised him anymore.

            "And that would be?" he inquired mildly, quite certain the wizard's "solution" wouldn't be much of one after all.  Wizards had a tendency to do that.  As it turned out, he was right.

            A smile creased Gandalf's wizened old face.  "An heir," was all he said.

            Bilbo waited, thinking he would further explain and when he didn't, a frown marred his smooth hobbitish features.  He shook his head in exasperation.  "Yes, my friend, an heir would be a great benefit to my current circumstance but, as you no doubt realize, it is impossible."

            Gandalf took the pipe from his mouth and eyed Bilbo quite shrewdly.  "Why?" he demanded.

            Bilbo looked at his friend incredulously, wondering if the years had finally caught up with him.  "Where am I to get an heir, Gandalf?  From my cabinet?"  He shook his head.  "I think not."

            Gandalf chuckled good-naturedly.  "No, Bilbo my friend, not from your cabinet, for a mouse would make a poor heir indeed."

            Bilbo bristled indignantly.  "Mice!" he cried, "I have no mice--"

            The wizard held up his hands.  "A jest, my friend, I was merely making a jest.  You don't expect me to believe a well-respected hobbit such as yourself shares your smial with mice, do you?"

            "Well," Bilbo said, slightly hurt but accepting the wizard's apology nevertheless, for Gandalf had meant no harm by it.  "It was a poor jest that was poorly taken.  Yet, you are wrong on accounts of 'well-respected' for I am afraid my fellows would disagree."

            Gandalf waved this aside.  "The heir, Bilbo, the heir," he said impatiently, for the matter weighed heavy on his heart and he wished to be through with it.  "What say you to this?" he asked, cautiously.

            Bilbo shrugged.  "What ought I to say, Gandalf?  You suggest an heir and, indeed, an heir is what I need but what you propose is, well . . . ."  The hobbit sighed, seemingly at a lose for words.  He nibbled on a slice of fresh bread, though he tasted it not, for his thoughts dwelt on other matters. 

            "Bilbo," Gandalf said, slowly and quite carefully.  "If a suitable heir presented itself, would you take it?"

            Bilbo forced a chuckle.  " 'It,' Gandalf?  My heir could hardly be an it," he pursed his lips, hardly withholding a smile, "Though I would not be displeased if this heir happened to be a him."  Gandalf frowned at the hobbit and immediately Bilbo sobered.  Sighing, he nodded.  "Yes, Gandalf, if an heir presented itself, indeed, I would not hesitate."

            Slowly, a smile creased the old man's face and, satisfied, he sat back in his chair, bringing the pipe to his lips and puffing on it lazily.  "Indeed," he murmured, between the puffs of smoke.  "Indeed."  Bilbo sighed gustily and bit into a ripe apple.  He chewed on it for several moments before Gandalf opened his mouth, as if to make some comment or observation.  He never got the chance, however, for the chair on which he sat groaned mournfully and, before Gandalf could do ought, collapsed beneath him.  The wizard spread his arms in a wild attempt to catch himself but, with Bilbo's laughter ringing in the air, went down regardless in a billow of gray robes.

* * * * *


	5. Part Five

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

A/N:  Sorry it took so long.

            Being the Fifth Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

Two-and-a-half weeks later, Gandalf the Grey set out from Bag End, limping along the East Road until he passed once again into the East Farthings.  The days were long and weary for the wizard and for once he took no pleasure in the simplicity of the Shire, for no longer did it seem a haven were he could, at least for a time, rid himself of a responsibility long laid upon his shoulders.  The sun neither cheered his thoughts nor lightened his mood and the further he trod the more he hated what he knew he must do.  Though Gandalf realized that young Frodo would not be the only orphan caused by the great evil surging from the South, at the same time he knew that the wee halfling would be the first in a great flood of sorrow and grief.

            "This is what starts it all," Gandalf mourned on the afternoon the Baranduin spread out before him in a glistening sheen of gold.  Brandy Hall was visible on the eastern shore, large and snug as only a smial could be.  

            With a hearty sigh, he came upon the Bucklebury Ferry, where a hobbit-lad of about twenty sat upon a moored ferry dragging his feet in the cool water.  At the wizard's approach, the youngster glanced up and his brown eyes widened in wonder and his mouth gaped open.  

            Gandalf smiled at this youth, for his innocence was refreshing.  "To Brandy Hall, my good lad, for matters of great import await me there."

            The hobbit-lad could only stare.

            "Come, come, would you deter a man such as I?" he asked, frowning (his features suddenly fierce to any a child) and the youngster's eyes, if at all possible, widened more.

            "N-n-no, sir," the hobbit-lad stuttered and, his eyes holding naught save fear, he stumbled to his feet.  "T-to Brandy Hall."  He picked up a discarded pole and set it in the depths of the water.

            The wizard allowed the tween a smile and "There's a good, lad," before, with the aid of his staff, he climbed aboard the flat, wooden ferry.

            "And Mrs. Baggins isn't doing at all well, Mr. Gandalf," the hobbit-lad said, very matter-of-fact. "She won't eat save perhaps at supper, and that only rarely.  'Tisn't natural, is what my Da says, though my Ma thinks it's natural enough, what with Mrs. Baggins having a broken heart and all, or some such case like similar."  For one so small, the youth had incredible strength.  He was less than half the size of the wizard and yet he handled the ferry with the ease of one who had been raised for such an occupation.  The lad seemed to enjoy it, too, and he showed no fear of the water.  An odd trait for a hobbit, whether he was a Brandybuck (which was most likely) or, say, a Grubb.

            Gandalf peered at the small child.  "And how does one come to learn of such going-ons?" he wondered aloud.

            The hobbit-lad looked up at the wizard.  "Ma's quite the gossip," he said, almost apologetically.  "And Da never pays much mind to me.  He likes to talk, my Da does, and it's a good combination, I suppose, depending the way you look at it.  I suspect its good, anyway--for me."  He smiled impishly and Gandalf couldn't help but chuckle.

            "And what do your parents say," he asked, a moment later, "about the cause of such grievous actions?"

            After the initial shock of seeing a human and once Gandalf's intimidating appearance wore off, the wizard found that the hobbit-lad was quite active at the mouth.  The wizard learned many an interesting thing from the tween, for the trip over the Brandywine was not a short one, and it was not long before the youngster brought up some disturbing--if not quite unexpected--news from Brandy Hall. 

            "Like I said, my Ma thinks Mrs. Baggins' suffering from a broken heart," and he sighed heavily.  Gandalf suspected the youth agreed with his mother, though perhaps not for the same reasons.  "Both my parents . . ." he hesitated.  Then, "They say Mrs. Baggins has finally realized what she done."

            Gandalf's brow furrowed.  "What has she done?" he asked.

            The hobbit-lad shoved with the pole, sending the ferry that much closer to the eastern shore.  It was several moments before the tween said ought and Gandalf could tell that it was only with great reluctance.  "They say she regrets marrying a Bagginses," and, having said as much, the hobbit-lad glanced nervously at the wizard.  

            Gandalf went rigid and there was a sudden light in his eyes that was terrible to behold.  He shook with suppressed rage and would speak ought else.  The remaining ride was made in silence--the hobbit-lad's mouth clamped firmly shut, gazing miserably to the eastern bank and the wizard's eyes, hard and cold, watching Brandy Hall.  It was not long before they came to the eastern dock.

Drogo watched his son touch the caterpillar with a pudgy finger, and then, squealing in delight, over balance and topple backwards.  The hobbit laughed deep and heartily while his child looked at him in a hurt sort of manner.

            "Ow," Frodo pouted, holding up a hand toward his father.  Drogo chuckled and kissed his son's palm.

            "All better," Drogo said, spreading his arms wide.

            "Aw be'r!" the child laughed, imitating his father.  With great difficulty, Frodo got to his feet and ran down to the water's edge, splashing into its shallow depths and laughing as fish darted from beneath his feet.

            "How easy it is to heal your hurts," Drogo commented with a fond smile, watching his son pick up and admire a rock.  A sudden pang came to his heart and, biting his lower lip, he swallowed away the tears that had been trying to force themselves upon him for the last month, for it was then, together, that he and his wife had made a descision . . . .

            _"He is Human!" she cried, her cheeks damp, her hands shaking.  "He is naught save a crazy human.  Who is he to tell us to give up our son—_our _son!  Not his! Not the Outside's!  Ours!"_

_            "Primmy, Primmy," Drogo murmured, as if it were a soothing balm to his breaking heart.  "He is Gandalf.  Do you remember the Old Took, love?"_

_            Prumula nodded.  "Yes," she whispered._

_            "He was not one to put his trust in any old gentlehobbit and he, Gerontius, trusted an old man dressed in gray."  Drogo looked at his wife and he saw her eyes shimmer.  "Who is this Gandalf?  I know naught and perhaps the Old Took didn't either, and then, perhaps he did.  I remember once, when I was young, he told my friends and I a tale I will never forget.  A tale of a Grey Pilgrim who knew things others would never, could never, dream.  My love, there is _something_ about him.  _Something_," he murmured._

_            Primula looked to her husband and knew that he had made a decision, deep in his heart, one that was honorable above the greatest of Gondor, but that held so much hurt toward her that all she wanted to do was curl up upon the floor with her so very small Frodo and let the world pass them by._

            She couldn't, though, she knew she couldn't.  Her husband was right.  In her heart she knew this, knew that Gandalf spoke truly and that he did not lie and would not prove false.  Something told her this, told her quietly, secretly, that she must do this and if she could, perhaps then everything would be all right.  Just perhaps . . . .

Drogo choked on his unshed tears.  "If only other wounds mended so easily, or were so very small."  A light touch on his shoulder caused the gentlehobbit to turn.  Primula rested a delicate hand upon him.  She watched their son with eyes so ravaged with grief that few of late could bear to look within them.

            "If only . . ." she whispered, her voice like that of the wind.

            Drogo reached around and, grasping her small hand within his own, she knelt beside him and laid her head upon his shoulder.  Brushing her hair aside, he kissed her on the brow.

            For many long moments, the two watched their son together, never saying ought or moving at all.  The last month had been a terrible thing, for either hobbit.  Days filled with confusion, with doubt, and with fear.  Every night, Primula cried herself to sleep, her cheeks wet long after the darkness had come.  Drogo held her often, his own eyes dry.  For her sake, he told himself, though if truth were told he couldn't allow himself to cry, for once he did he feared he would not have the strength to cease.  Frodo was their light when it was dark, their joy when misery stalked the halls, and their laughter when their world held silence.  He was their creation through a love that was more beautiful than an Elvish Queen.  To lose that--to lose _him--was something worse than death--it was an endless death knowing they could never see him, never see that part of them that they had brought to life._

            "Why?" Primula whispered, so softly that Drogo wondered if he had imagined it.  "Why, my love, _why?"  _

            Drogo could not answer, for he did not understand either.

            Frodo laughed gaily then, and Drogo's worn, tired eyes fell upon his son.  The toddler smiled at his father and held on high a rock he had found.  Climbing from the water, Frodo ran, stumbled, fell, and crawled the rest of the way to his parents, all the while the rock still clutched within his fist.

            "Ma-ma," he gurgled happily, crawling into his mother's lap, who held him close and fought the tears that threatened to come.  She had never cried in front of her son, and she did not intend to do so now.  Frodo held up the rock to show his mother.            

            Primula smiled fondly at him.  "Oh, my," she said softly as Frodo set the smooth rock in her palm.  "It is beautiful, my love."  Her sapphire eyes fell upon it almost lovingly, for when one first looked at it it appeared ordinary as only rocks can seem, but when looked at for a second time or perhaps looked at through the eyes of a child one noticed the golden specks and dark gray rings it bore.

            Frodo wriggled from his mother's lap and, crawling across his father, seated himself contently in the green grass.  He looked up at his parents and smiled.

            Primula swallowed a sob and, clutching the stone almost desperately, got hurriedly to her feet.  Without a word and hardly a rustle of her skirts, she turned and made her way to Brandy Hall.  Drogo watched his wife flee, knew what caused her to do so, and forced himself to look back into the trustful eyes of his son.  That is what hurts the most, Drogo realized, the complete and honest trust a youngster puts into his parents and the parents knowledge that, if they fail, that look would be lost forever.


	6. Part Six

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

            Being the Sixth Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

Frodo watched his mother leave, his large eyes holding not save hurt confusion.  His bottom lip puckered out as Primula disappeared into the shadowed depths of the Brandybucks' great smials and he looked to his father, knowing he could make everything all right.

            "Ma?" Frodo whimpered, his gaze falling back to where his mother had disappeared.  Drogo reached over and lifted the wee tot in his strong, yet gentle hands.  He set Frodo in his lap and kissed the hobbit-child atop the head, his soft curls tickling the gentlehobbit's nose.  He took a breath, deep and almost mournful in its own way, smelling the sweet scent of his child.

            Drogo swallowed the lump in his throat, blinking his eyes rapidly against what he refused to believe were tears.  He kept his gaze upon the river, more out of stubborn defiance against the wetness (for, surely, that is all it was) than to see the Brandywine's golden waters stretched out proudly before him.  Because his sight was obscured, he did not at first note the small ferry's slow approach, or if he did he discarded it without a second thought, for the Bucklebury Ferry often transported hobbits over the Brandywine.  Only when he saw the gray figure--bent but, otherwise, quite tall--did the fear grip his heart like a cold, fierce claw.

            The wee hobbit-lad, who had leaned against his father in a quiet manner, unique for a child of his age, spied the Buckleberry Ferry in the same instant Drogo did.  With a cry of delight, he wriggled from his father's grasp and waddled hurriedly down the embankment, crawling along the wooden dock even before the gentlehobbit had realized quite what his five-year-old was doing. 

            "Miwo!" Frodo cried gaily, crawling to the very end of the dock.  "Mie, Mie!" he laughed.

            Drogo scrambled to his feet.  "Frodo!" he called, trying to keep the panic from his voice.  "Frodo, no!"  He ran after his over-excited son.

            Upon the ferry, the hobbit tween gave a cry of alarm when he spied the child nearing the edge.  He leapt forward upon the raft, the pole gripped fearfully in his fist, and watched helplessly, for the ferry was still several yards from the dock.  Frodo crawled to the end, stopping at the last; his pudgy fingers gripped only the very edge.  His sapphire eyes--those that looked so much like his mother's--laughed all their own for seeing a friend long missed.

            "Mie," Frodo fairly chirped, giggling.

            "Stay, Frodo," the youth called, his breath suddenly coming hard.  "Stay," he said firmly.

            Drogo was only a step away, perhaps not even that, when the hobbit-child spied the stooped wizard.  Even Frodo, who had seen no more than five years, knew the oddity of this man and the sight that presented itself.  His lips pursed in confusion and his brow furrowed.  He lifted a hand--a hand that grasped the edge of the dock--and pointed at the wizard in a demanding gurgle that only the young may comprehend.  

            Gandalf's body tensed even before the child's left palm slipped from the dock's wet wood.  Frodo gave a yelp and hurtled over and into the Baranduin's golden-brown depths.

            Something happened then:  Two beings--both of whom were of a race that above all else feared the dark, unknown depths of water, whether it be river, lake or sea--leapt, with a cry, into the Brandywine.  

            Drogo would ever after wonder at how he managed to grasp his son but, then, the body will perform amazing acts of heroism when put to the test.  He grasped Frodo even as he, himself, felt the cool water open its great gaping maw to swallow him and his child whole.  Drogo's free arm flailed out and he grabbed an old, sun-warped plank nailed precariously to the dock and clung to it with all his might.  The chill water lapped at his chest.

            Milo, son of Rufus, was known for being both witty and adaptable.  As long as anyone had ever remembered, Asphodel's only son had been the most well-to-do hobbit-lad that was to be found in all of Buckland.  He knew how to both please his elders and how to entertain those younger than him and he had used this always to his advantage.  Nothing had ever gotten the better of him for nothing had ever gotten close.  That is, save a certain blue-eyed cousin who now needed Milo more than ought else.   

            He didn't think--not with his head, leastwise, but with his heart--and he leapt from the ferry with only his cousin in mind.  He reached out his arms but even that did him naught and where the Brandywine failed to swallow Drogo, instead, it took the tween.

            "Milo!" Drogo barked, wanting to reach out to his nephew but restricted by his own two hands.  Desperately, the hobbit looked to the wizard for aid and found Gandalf already reaching into the churning river, fishing about until he brought his arm out and lo! a young hobbit lad was attached to the end.

            Milo choked and sputtered, clung desperately to Gandalf until he felt the solid wood of the ferry beneath his furry feet and even then he only loosened his hold a fraction of a degree.  He stood shakily, looked around him, spotted Drogo and a sobbing Frodo, and managed a trembling smile.  "Aye, well, perhaps Aunt Primmy's obsession with swimming isn't such an 'orrible thing after all.  To bad young Frodo there isn't farther along, though."

            Drogo chuckled and looked at his son.  "Within the year, my lad, you'll be a swimming champ."  He kissed Frodo on the brow and the child sniffled.  "In no time at all, all those pretty lasses will soon have their eye on you!" and he laughed.

*~*~*~*~*~*

            Frodo looked at the wizard in wide-eyed amazement.  "I remember that, Gandalf!" he cried in delight. 

            The wizard regarded the hobbit.  "Indeed?"

            "Yes, yes," he nodded with a smile.  "And . . . and," he tilted his head, as if recalling something.  "Yes, and Milo forever after teased me of it.  I do remember, Gandalf!  He was quite convinced that I had deliberately tried to drown him."  Suddenly, he frowned.  "Although, as I remember, I believe Milo's tale was somewhat different.  Are you certain that is the way of it?"

            "Quite," Gandalf assured him.

            "That twit!" Frodo laughed suddenly.  "I cannot even recall how many times he got me to pinch an armload of mushrooms from Farmer Maggot.  And it was all out of guilt, too!  'Come now, Cousin,' he would say to me, 'surely you would not begrudge me this.'  And I never would either, for how could I after almost drowning him."  The hobbit crossed his arms over his chest.  "The beatings he caused me."

            Gandalf laughed.  "Come now, surely it was not only Milo who wanted a tasty mushroom snack."

            Frodo's mouth twitched and a quiet grin came suddenly to his features.  "Well, perhaps not always," he agreed grudgingly, "but they _were the best mushrooms in all the Shire, some did say," he added, as a way of explaining.  Several quiet moments passed as Frodo recalled fond memories and Gandalf stared off into the setting sun in bemused silence._

            "I do miss him terribly," the hobbit said some time later, his voice wistful with longing.

            Gandalf nodded, never taking his eyes from the horizon.  "He keeps up a decent home, so I hear," the wizard commented.

            Frodo chuckled.  "Oh, aye, that he does.  Married a Baggins," he grinned, "to Aunt Asphodel's horror.  Peony Baggins, as a matter of fact.  Very lovely, and as stubborn as the best of us."  Several moments later:

            "It took several years for all of Hobbiton to get over the wedding."

            "That good, eh?" Gandalf wondered and Frodo smiled at the memory.

            "You are fond of mischief and mayhem, my friend.  Perhaps it would have been just your cup of tea."

            Gandalf peered down at the hobbit.  Frodo merely smiled at the wizard and it was not a moment later that Gandalf smiled also, for none could deny otherwise.  "Indeed," he agreed.

            In the distance, the fiery orb dibbed its flames into the water, quenching day to make way for soothing night.  The time was near.

*~*~*~*~*~*


	7. Part Seven

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

A/N:  Sorry, this one is short.  Remember:  Patience is a virtue.

            Being the Seventh Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

            That night, Gandalf the Grey spoke with two hobbits in their small smial that was lit with naught but a single, very tired looking candle.

            "I know a way," Gandalf said quietly, for the darkness was thick and foreboding--it seemed to dislike voices.  "Today at the crossing young Milo put my misgivings to ease.  Tomorrow night you, Drogo, and your dear wife will go out as for a midnight jaunt, to walk and talk beneath the stars."  Drogo merely nodded at this--many was the occasion when he and his wife did such.  Another reason why Asphodel regarded him with distaste.  Oddities--not a common Hobbit characteristic.  "But you will not come back--"

            Primula barely contained a sob as her eyes flew to the darkened doorway that led to young Frodo's room.  He slept contently, unaware of what transpired about him.

            "--but get into a boat and cast off out into the Brandywine."

            "A boat, Gandalf?" Drogo wondered weakly.  He could not believe this was happening.

            "Yes," the wizard nodded.  "I leave in a short while to go to the Old Forest.  Elves are common in that wood and I would ask for their aid.  They will meet you in the very center of the Baranduin.  From there, you will know what to do."

            "One night?" Primula's voice was so very quite, hardly heard by either gentlehobbit or wizard.

            "I am afraid that is all we can afford, my dear," Gandalf said.  "I dare not wait any longer, for the sooner we do this the better it will be.  I know you may take this wrongly, but it is perhaps for Frodo's best if we do this now.  He is still so very young . . ."

            Drogo looked at the wizard sharply, his gaze heated with pain and grief.  Reaching to his wife, he enveloped her in a warm embrace and, silently, she cried against him.  "One night," Drogo gritted, his stony gaze fixed on the wizard.  They regarded each other for a time before the hobbit crumbled and buried his face in Primula's long curling hair.

            Weary with grief, Gandalf rose to his feet to make the slow and tedious march to the Old Forest, where he would talk long with the Elves, far into the dawning of a new day.  He never said ought to the two grieving hobbits nor saw again the sleeping child for many years to come.  Indeed, not until, as he foresaw, the Shadow's rise in the East.  

            A Company of Nine would set out to cast it back.  

* ~*~ *~ *~ *~*


	8. Part Eight

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

A/N:  I'm glad this has kept your interest.  This is not quite the last chapter.  Don't worry, I'll let you know when it ends.^^

            Being the Eighth Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

The great Elvish ship docked just as the Sun's last rays were fading into twilight.  Seagulls flew high in the sky, searching for their evening meal, either for themselves or their young and screeching in delight when they spied a silver flash beneath the waves.

            There was a crowd upon the docks of a fair-haired folk that none had ever seen before, save Galadriel who was of their kin.  She was the first to step off the boat and her brethren, who had not seen her since near the dawn of time, greeted her warmly.  Elrond followed, tall and regale in his Elvish robes, down upon a land that had haunted his dreams since he was a child.  Others came after, including Gandalf and the two small hobbits, one of which was wide-eyed with wonder while the other looked about in sleepy-eyed confusion.

            They, too, were greeted in delight.

            One Elf in particular, tall and fair to look upon, spying Frodo, approached Gandalf and addressed him in a strong lilting voice.

            "Hail, Olórin," he cried and, catching sight of the Elf, Gandalf broke into an unaccustomed smile.

            "Well met, Finarfin.  Anar has rose and set many times since our last meeting."

            "Indeed, it has."  The Elf's gaze strayed to Frodo, who looked about him in overwhelming delight, struck speechless by all that presented itself.  "Word had come of my daughter's return, so I and a few of my kin wished to meet her on the Shore.  There was, however, no mention of the coming of the halfling.  Is this he, Olórin, whom I've heard so much about?" 

            Galadriel stepped forward to stand by her father's side.  She looked down at Frodo, who now peered about him as with the knowledge of one who suspects they are the topic of another's conversation.  Finally, his own sapphire eyes caught and held those of the she-Elf.  

"Yes, Father," she spoke softly, though clearly so all might hear.  "This is Frodo, son of Drogo, Bearer and Destroyer of the One Ring to whom the Dark Lord Sauron crafted in the dark caverns of Amon Amarth."

            A sudden murmur passed through the crowd and Frodo, glancing about nervously, grasped and held his four-fingered hand.  Gandalf placed his own gnarled hand upon the hobbit's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance and comfort.

            Finarfin smiled kindly.  "Welcome, Frodo, son of Drogo, to Valinor.  May it bring solace to your heart and peace to your mind."

            Frodo dipped his head.  "Thank you, Lord Finarfin.  This land already eases my weary heart.  I should think in a very short time it will come to rest."

            "Indeed, I hope it does, young friend.  But until time eases your suffering I wish to offer you another balm."  At this he looked to the wizard and it seemed to the halfling that something unspoken passed between the two but before the hobbit could say ought, an Elf that slightly reminded Frodo of a friend he had known seemingly an eternity ago stepped forward.  Absently, Frodo wondered how Legolas and Gimli faired.

            "My Lord," the Elf bowed.  "Might _I go and fetch Elehín?"_

            Without hesitation, Finarfin nodded.  "Go, and bring Elehín only.  There is plenty of time for the others.  We mustn't overdo it."

            "But," the Elf hesitated, "Niewen . . ."

            Finarfin shook his head.  "Now is not the time."

            The Elf bowed, "My Lord," and turned and raced up the hill, upon a path that led into a deep wood.   

"Elehín," Gandalf murmured thoughtfully and chuckled not a moment later.  Frodo's eyes fell away from the departing Elf and he looked up at the wizard in curiosity.  Finarfin stayed any comments on his part.

            "Elehín?" he repeated softly, so as not to draw attention to himself.  It was a hopeless wish, however, for those Elves that milled about watched the hobbit with interest and delight, and even with what Frodo thought might be barely suppressed excitement.  "Who is Elehín, Gandalf?"

            "Is it not obvious?"  Gandalf peered down at the halfling.

            Frodo paused, his brow furrowing in concentration.  "Ele . . . ele . . ." he bit his bottom lip.  Bilbo had taught him much of the Elvish tongue, however long ago, and though the word _ele was similar to several other Elvish words it was not altogether familiar to him.  "Star?" he murmured finally.  Several Elves giggled in amusement and Frodo felt his face flush bright.  "Star," he whispered quietly, glancing up at the wizard.  "And . . . and 'child', I think."_

            "Hmm," Bilbo murmured sleepily, having fallen asleep on his feet again, but now peered about in blurry-eyed curiosity.  "Stars?  Stars, did you say?"  He shook his head.  "No, no stars tonight, the Gaffer tells of a storm acomin'.  Frodo my lad, do an old hobbit kind and shutter up all the windows.  Wouldn't want my maps getting scattered about, would we?"

            "Of course not, Uncle," Frodo said, placing a hand on the Bilbo's shoulder.  "I'll take care of it right away, don't you worry none."

            "There's a good lad," Bilbo mumbled and his eyes fluttered shut and, with the aid of an Elf's sturdy hand and his cane, he was snoring softly once again.  

            Frodo turned to the wizard and Elf.  "Star-child?"

            Finarfin laughed lightly.  "Indeed, it would seem to be the case, but alas! I am afraid you are incorrect."  Despite his words, the Elf allowed the halfling a look of approval, for rare indeed is the case when one can unravel the mysteries of the Elvish speech, especially that of Valinor, the most ancient tongue in all of Earth.  

"Elehín," said Gandalf.  "Means 'Behold!  A child.' "

            Frodo frowned in confusion.

            Galadriel knelt beside the hobbit and smiled fondly at him.  "Those who have never left the Blessed Realm have never known the Periannath--your people, Frodo.  What do you suppose my kin did when a hobbit came across the Sea so many years ago?"

            One of the Elves laughed, his eyes filled with a merry memory.  "Behold!  What comes to us from the East?  Not Elf kin, I think, but a child instead!"

            Galadriel nodded and Finarfin said, "Elehín."

            Frodo looked over at Gandalf, confusion still dancing in his sapphire orbs.  But before the wizard could say ought, a voice rang out in excitement and joy.

            "Gandalf!" came the clear voice of, unmistakably, a hobbit.  Frodo glanced up.  A gentlehobbit came down the soft slope, followed closely by the light-haired Elf.  "Gandalf, is it truly you?"

            "And who else would you perceive it to be, Master Baggins?" Gandalf asked gruffly, but not unkindly.  Only several noted Frodo's sharp intake of breath.

            Drogo laughed.  "So formal, my dear Gandalf?  What did you say to me so many years ago, I'd like to know?"

            The wizard smiled.  "Formalities can be such a tasteless and tiresome burden, I believe."

            "Indeed," Drogo agreed, "I believe you said exactly that."  He turned and it was then the gentlehobbit spied the speechless Frodo, who stood before Galadriel as one who is in a dream.  Drogo smiled in surprised delight, for rare was the case when he saw another of his kin--indeed, he had not seen another hobbit save his wife and those of his own blood for well over forty years.  

            "Why, who is this delightful chap?" he inquired, quite pleased.  He regarded Frodo for a moment and his smile broadened.  "A Baggins, I'd say, for you have that look about you."  But, as Frodo did not respond, Drogo took it as bad manners on his part and offered an apologetic smile.  

            "It has been a terribly long time, I'm afraid.  Indeed, too long.  Forgive my manners, friend.  My name is Drogo Baggins," he looked around at all the Elves.  "But here I am simply known as Elehín."

            Frodo stood there, staring at a hobbit that was in every and all respects a complete stranger.  Someone he had never known and yet had always dreamed of knowing.  His hands shook and he couldn't quite seem to get a grasp on the spinning world around him.  He tried to speak but found no breath.  He could not say what he so wanted to.  

            _Father._

_            Drogo looked at him in concern.  "Are you well, my lad?"_

            Gandalf knelt then, his white robes rustling_ softly.  He placed a large, gnarled hand on the younger Baggins' shoulder and, with a frightened jerk, Frodo's wide, wild eyes found the old man.  _

            "G-Gandalf," he gasped, tears glistening his eyes.  "You didn't tell me, you didn't tell me!"

            "But I did," was all the wizard said.

            Drogo took a hesitant step forward, glancing from Wizard to Hobbit, slow disbelieving realization dawning on his smooth boyish features, a face that had eluded Time, for Time has no power in the Realm of the Guarded.  All who dwell in Valinor are immortal.  "Gandalf, what is this?" he whispered.  "Is this--" he looked at Frodo, then, back at the wizard, "Oh, Ilúvatar, it cannot be."  His breath came harsh and he looked all about him desperately, and got his answer in the eyes of those who watched him.  He turned to Frodo.  The younger hobbit could only watched him.

            "Frodo?" Drogo tried, but the name caught in his throat.

            Frodo could now see clearly those dark orbs that had escaped him for so long.  He saw the face that the only memory he could ever recall of his parents had shown him, though always in his mind's eye the face was faded and hard to make out.  Not anymore, though.  Never again.

            Through the tears, Frodo smiled.  "Father," he breathed.

* * * * *


	9. Part Nine

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

            Being the Ninth Part of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

Miran was barely able to contain the fits of laughter that were tickling their way from his heart, up through his throat, to where they wished to burst forth from his lips.  Only by covering his mouth was he spared.

            Below him, through the shady boughs of the tree in which he hid, crept his sister.  Anara was a beautiful lass, not quite in her tweens she was developing only as a rare and beautiful flower can in a land without evil and fear.  She was a rare beauty, but not so much in this land as in places far away, for all who dwelt in Valinor had a rich and cleansing hue to them.  

Anara peered about her often, her blue eyes, which were the color of the sky, searched the land and flowers and trees for a brother who had done a great wrong.

            "Miran," she spoke finally, glancing here and there.  "I know your close, Isilda Miran," she said, using his full name as she often when irritated with his antics.  Hands on her hips, Miran couldn't help but note how much she resembled their mother.  "If Father hears about this he'll have your hide.  You know it as well as I.  Come out now and at least _admit what you did."  She stopped and looked up into the trees exactly were her twin hid._

            Miran, with a gasp of playful fright, flattened himself against the tree's trunk.  The she-hobbit sighed and shook her head. 

"I see you, Ira," was all she said.  

With a grin, Miran poked his head from around the trunk, his golden curls catching a ray of sun and glinting.  "You're no fun, Ana," he pouted.  "I was merely enjoying the cool afternoon."

"While others toil over tasks assigned to you," she said, irritated and highly displeased.  "Did you know Dorian is out there right now doing the chores you so carelessly neglected."  

Suddenly, the glint in the hobbit-youth's eyes vanished.  "I told him to let them be.  I'd do them in good time."

Anara glared up at her brother.  "Yes, well, Dorian's heart has always been too large for the lot of us.  Come on down and we'll finish the chores together," she said with a gusty sigh, for common was the case when days ended as such.

With more agility than any hobbit should posses, Miran scrambled down from the tree's high branches until his furry feet were flat upon the ground.  He grinned down at his sister, who was less than an inch shorter than he, and with a shake of her own head of golden curls she smiled fondly at him.

Miran opened his mouth to say something, something of which Anara would never hear, for a shout suddenly rang out from far away and both siblings immediately recognized it.

Anara dashed off first in the direction of the Smial, her footsteps light and swift.  Miran came after not a moment later but soon passed his sister, as his legs were longer and stronger.

"Ana!  Ira!"

Miran could hear the voice clearly now, high and sweet with an Elvish quality to it.  But no Elf was he, merely their older brother Dorian, whom the twin's adored beyond all measure and loved with a fierce and protective passion.

"Here we are, Dorian," Miran called, spying his brother upon the well-worn path leading deeper into the wood.  A walking stick was held in the elder hobbit's hand and his usual soft smile was broadened slightly, to hold some secret joy that could be seen even in his silver-hued eyes.

At Miran's cry, Dorian turned his gaze to the fore and his sightless gaze came to rest upon, and then pass over, the younger hobbit.

"Ira, Ana," he said, as Miran approached and grasped his older brother by the hand, indicating that he was here and listening.  "You would not believe . . ." he broke off.

"What is it, Dorian?" Ana asked, coming up from behind her twin, barely out of breath and none the worse for the wear.

Dorian's smile broadened.  "I cannot say.  Come with me and I shall show you."

Miran and Anara looked at the other in obvious confusion but realized without a spoken word that they would get nothing further from their brother.  Together, the three turned and made their way to the Smial.

Frodo followed his father, his slightly smaller hand grasped in Drogo's.  Neither could help but look at the other on the short trek from the Shore up the winding path to the Smial, though no matter how hard they tried, neither could manage a single word.

Gandalf and the others had remained behind, knowing that it was best for Frodo to deal with this alone, away from prying eyes and listening ears.  Bilbo hadn't seemed too aware of late and had greeted Drogo as if the two had just seen eachother yesterday.  He had then found greater pleasure in the dream worlds now occupying much of his latter years.

            As the two hobbits neared the hobbit-hole that was simply referred to as the Smial (it being the only one in all the West), a soft melody, like that of a summer's breeze, came to greet them upon their entrance.

            The hobbit woman sat upon an elegantly carved rocking chair and to the lull of her music she rocked harmoniously back and forth.  As Drogo continued forward, Frodo held back, letting his father's hand slip away and only at the last did Drogo stop and peer at his son.  But he said not a word, seemingly understanding without asking, and with a nod of his head Drogo approached his wife.

            Frodo watched the exchange, fighting back the tears, for this was his _mother, his__ father.  His._

_            Primula turned, then, and her eyes gleamed.  She looked back to her husband and something passed between them that Frodo could almost, but not quite, understand.  Drogo helped his wife to her feet and it was then that Frodo saw something that caused his eyes to grow wide and his heart to skip several beats.  _

His mother was large with child.

But the thought vanished almost immediately, as his mother's sobbing voice came to him, almost out of one of his dreams:

"Frodo . . . my son . . ."

            Dorian halted suddenly.

            "What is it?" Miran hissed, for it seemed to him that his brother heard something.  He tilted his head to the side and strained his ears, hoping to catch what it was the elder hobbit heard.  He was, however, doomed to disappointment.  With a sigh, Miran glanced over at his brother—

            And paled visibly.  Dorian was crying.

            "Oh, Dorian, what's the matter?" Anara cried, fearfully, reaching up and grasping her elder brother's hand. 

            "Don't you hear?" Dorian asked softly.  Neither twin could however, though neither was that surprised.  Ever since they could remember, Dorian had had the uncanny ability to _know things—things that others, even with their sight, could not.  He'd always brushed it aside as being able to __hear.  But who could hear such things as . . . "Mother," Dorian said, and his face held a strange cast to it, like one who mourns and yet rejoices at the same time, "She's crying."  _

 Without a look, Miran raced for the Smial that was just barely within view but was halted at a suddenly shout from his brother.

"Wait, Miran," Dorian called, and the twin stopped in his tracks to look back at his brother and sister.  "She's well.  She does not weep."

Miran frowned.  "But you said—"

Dorian's sightless eyes gazed out into the distance, past the Smial and beyond even the Shore.  His gaze extended to a land he had never known, only heard about in tales told to him by his father.  

He squeezed his sister's hand tightly, in a reassuring sort of way and with a sigh, one in which held great relief, said softly so as she could barely hear, "Our brother has come home."

* ~*~ *~ *~ *~*


	10. Epilogue

Disclaimer:  I believe everyone knows the drill.  I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien.  I do, however, claim Thilglîn Dorian, Anara Marigold, Isilda Miran, and young Rómárë (also the elvish names Elehín and Niewen) for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them.  I hope he forgives me this.

            Being the Epilogue of . . . .

With The Rising and Setting of Anar

            "My love," Primula breathed, her sapphire eyes sparkling with unshed tears.  The babe slept contently in her arms, dreaming dreams that only the Ainur see fit to grant the young.  "The Elves name him Rómárë, for the Darkness in the East has gone and he is born at the dawning of a new age.  But you have given this to us, Frodo--my son," she said and tears suddenly fell down her pale cheeks.  "You have saved us from the night and offered us the day.  I would have _you name him."_

            Frodo looked at his mother, and she smiled such a smile that none had ever bestowed upon him before.  Leastwise, he could never remember such.  In her eyes, Frodo saw a love that he had never known.  The simple love that a mother holds for her child.  He smiled, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

            "What would you name him?" she asked.

            Frodo looked at the babe and his heart ached in such a way that it affected his entire insides.  He did not understand this, only knew it had been happening ever since he had stepped on the great Elvish ship and had continued ever on.  He wondered at it.

            "May I?" he asked finally, and with a smile laced with approval, Primula handed Frodo the babe.  Warm in his arms, Rómárë whimpered, and his large eyes cracked open at the last to regard Frodo in such a way that only the young may accomplish.  In such a disquieting way that can alarm any and all into believing that this child _knew.  Knew your weaknesses and desires, your thoughts and your feelings.  Rómárë had this and more. _

            The babe's eyes were a deep brown, like the Shire's soil after a midsummer's rain—rich with the prospect of new life.  They danced with a strange and, yet, familar light, one in which Frodo recognized and missed above all else.

            "Sam," he breathed, for the babe had the gardener's look--stubborn and set about his ways.  With a wistful smile, Frodo looked to his mother.  "I would name him Samwise," he said.

             Primula noted the look that passed over her son's features and not for the first time mourned so many years lost to such a greedy creature as Time.  She had heard tales from Gandalf and Bilbo, even, of what Frodo had gone through to destroy what had once been known as nothing more than a "silly little trinket," but Primula knew that she would never fully understand her son's pain and torment, for she had not been there like she had for her Thilgîn, Isilda and Anara, or like she would be for Rómárë.  For Samwise.

            She smiled through her tears.  "Sam."

            Frodo laid the babe back in their mother's arms and took a step back.  

            "My little Samwise," she cooed, cuddling her hobbit-babe close.  So long ago, she had done the same to a bright-eyed squalling babe who had gazed up at her with eyes much like her very own.

            He stood now next to her, a hobbit grown. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

Well, my faithful companions, here my telling comes to an end.  I am afraid Gandalf becomes hesitant to continue the tale no matter my urgings.  He believes Frodo deserves his rest and the book ought to be closed.  I understand, though I am not so sure this is the end of Frodo's adventures.  I think I may have a word with the delightful hobbit (do not mention this to Gandalf!  You know how touchy he can be) and talk to him of his dear brothers and sister, for I do not believe the tale has ended, not yet at any rate.  But we shall see.

*Concerning Names*

Of the name _Elehín:  _

            _Ele is a crude Elvish exclamation meaning 'behold'.  (The Elvish word 'star' was later derived from __ele, which the Elves cried when first they beheld the stars.  Hence, Frodo was not completely off in his assumption that __ele meant 'star'.)  __Hín literally translates to 'child'. _

Of the name _Niewen:  _

            Named after Nienor, meaning 'mourning', daughter of Húrin and Morwen.  

            When Primula came across the Sea her eyes held naught save a vast emptiness.  Her sorrow did not dim until the birth of Dorian, Frodo's younger brother.  

            The Elves called her Niewen, 'She Who is in Mourning'.  

Of the name _Thilglîn:  _

            Born with eyes so light as to be almost silver in hue, the Elves called him Thilglîn, 'Glance of Silver Light'.  It was not until Dorian was two that Drogo and Primula realized their second born was blind.

            _Sil- is 'shine (with white or silver light)'.  __Glîn is 'gleam'.    _

Of the names _Isilda and __Anara:  _

            In the Ancient days two trees were grown and nurtured in Valinor:  Telperion and Laurelin.  They brought light to a world of darkness and failed only when Melkor sought to destroy them.  At the last, Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits, saved from Telperion a single silver flower and from Laurelin a fruit of gold.  With them she created the Moon and Sun.  

            Thus, when Miran was born the Moon was full and the Elves called him Isilda, and called Marigold Anara, for she was born the following day just as the Sun reached its zenith.

_            Isilda is translated to mean 'Of the Moon' in the Elvish tongue; __Isil being what the Vanyar first named the Moon.  __Anara translates to 'Of the Sun'; __Anar being the Quenya word for 'Sun'._

Of the name Rómárë: 

            Born after the Dark Lord was vanquished.  The Elves called him Rómárë, 'A New Beginning', for he was the first child born in the West during the Fourth Age.

            _Rómen literally translates to 'sunrise'.  __Árë literally translates to 'sunlight'.  _


End file.
